This past year has been marked by a definite increase in my writing momentum. I’ve been writing at a much faster rate and have been increasingly prolific. I’m happy for that and also curious about all the factors that have encouraged this.
More than anything, I think it’s getting older and feeling a need to really make this writing thing work. Make it real in a way that I consider professional. I haven’t quite figured out what that means, what that would look like – but I can tell you, I feel closer to the answer everyday.
Next year I’ll be thirty. Don’t get me wrong, I’m strangely excited to be thirty, because it seems every year I become additionally confident in myself and who I am. And because thirty seems to have a certain metaphysical weight to it. And cause there’s something warm about having years under your belt like rings in a tree trunk.
But I do feel as though these are the make it or break it years. I know it’s never too late to start something new, but to make this as a career and be able to support myself as I grow older – well, the time to do that is now.
As my friend Erin so aptly put it, working as an artist is a “war of attrition” in many ways. People drop off. Cause it’s damn hard. I understand why people would choose to devote their time more fully to positions that pay more and demand more of them intellectually than a day job that allows them to pursue their passion on nights and weekends.
I started writing and making films with lots of people when I graduated from college, but many of them have fallen off – deciding to pursue their passions as hobbies. I absolutely don’t judge these people, I only wonder sometimes what exactly has kept me in the game. And will it pay off?
But I can say, that the pressure to make it work had grown to an ache, which has grown to a deafening cry in my head – and has pushed my writing further and harder. And for that, I am grateful.